The Crimson Lining of the Fat to Come
by The 0dd 0ne
Summary: He's always on her mind as her lunch swirls away with fanning crimson. /or/ She hates every inch of her body just a little more when she realizes she loves him more than she should. Sequel to Wrong / Prequel to The Demons Inside \One-shot/ AUish [thundercest] [implied max/phoebe] (Also on my Wattpad account, The0ddest0ne0fAll) R
1. Chapter 1

She likes to think she started hating every inch of her body on her - oops, _their_ 14th birthday.

But she knows it started when she heard about what he does with girls in the janitor's closet.

It started with examining her entire body in the bathroom mirror. Pinching every trace of fat & biting down the bile. She was too squeamish to puke the fat back up.

Not that she hasn't managed to before.

* * *

She keeps quiet about the tears that empty themselves onto her pillow.

Silence is golden.

The frown at her lips goes unnoticed like the silver at her hips. She's too smart to leave scars where they check. Well, maybe a thin line here & there on the ivory of her forearms, but only when she doesn't have time to be cautious.

Just like the lunch she flushes down, it's her little secret.

* * *

She's starting to like the way the bread crumbles as it swirls away with fanning crimson drops.

It's beautiful to forget what they mean.

She's not stupid. She knows what she is & she knows that it's not healthy. But she needs to cope with the stolen glances & the fluttering heartbeats. She needs to bury the lingering touches & rising jealousy. And anyways, she's always liked the way crimson covers things.

Once upon a time, she was talking about nail polish when she said that.

* * *

From what she's heard in the bathroom, he hasn't stopped his trips to the janitor's closet.

Her hand slips as she leaves trickling crimson on her hips.

It kills her to hear about what he's done with all those . . . Those - those _whores!_ Tears start to fall as she takes it all out on her sides. Sobs wrack her body & she presses her head to the cold wall next to her, dropping the blade.

It's the first time she's cried audibly in months.

* * *

She's better at drawing than that stupid B from Freshman year would imply.

But where she can draw is bad.

She carves her brother's name into her skin, pretty little flowers & hearts bordering it. _Bad girl._ She's not supposed to feel this way, she's supposed to be the perfect, goody-two-shoes. But part of her likes the way she feels around him.

She writes the word wrong in pretty cursive as an afterthought.

* * *

They're 3 months away from 16 now.

She still flushes her lunch.

People have noticed how much weight she's lost. She can see it in the way eyes linger as she walks by, pretending everything is perfectly fine. Even Cherry has realized something's wrong. But she denies everything. She's memorized the perfect answer to their concerned questions.

"I've just been really stressed lately, I drink a _lot_ of water when I'm stressed."

* * *

She doesn't like the way food dissolves in her mouth.

Why would she like the fat to come?

She can feel her stomach churn as its acids melt the mush she's forced down her throat at the dinner table. It makes her want to scream but she swallows the long, tormented vowel & instead talks about her day & the test she studied her brains out for.

They don't notice her tearing away at her arm under the table.

* * *

She's scared Max has figured out her little secret.

His gaze lingers a little too long.

Which little secret could he know? Does he know that her lunch spirals down the school plumbing every day? Does he know her favorite usage of sharp things? Or does he know the worst secret of all?

Cross your fingers & pray he doesn't know any of them, sweetheart.

* * *

His fingers wrap around her wrist & he yanks her to him.

The scars there have healed when he checks.

But he's relentless. Her shirt goes up & she flinches as his eyes roam over the protruding bones & count the healing scars. He swears at the sight of his name but that's been faded by the year that's passed. All the little flowers & hearts are gone with the stomach she once had.

He drags her to the kitchen without a word & she counts the butterflies in her caved in stomach.

He grabs an apple from the fruit basket.

"Eat." It's a demand. She doesn't move. "_Eat._" It's desperate this time & she almost reaches out for the apple. "Please, Phoebe, I love you - " he can't possibly mean that the way she wants him to " - & you don't need to do this to yourself. _Please_ eat, you need to." She tentatively puts out a hand. The weight of health enters it. She takes a bite under his watchful gaze.

She decides she likes the attention.

* * *

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